(36/40) The Fine Art of Murder

by Donald Bain

  “Are you still planning to head back there tomorrow? Maine, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. I should catch a plane tomorrow, but I feel terrible that I haven’t had a chance to sit down with Marlise. I’d like that opportunity.”

  “Well, sounds like she might like that opportunity, too,” Corman said as we pulled up in front of the Ambassador East.

  “Can’t blame her, Mr. Corman.”

  “Please, it’s Willard.”

  “All right, Willard—and it’s Jessica.”

  “Can I buy you dinner?” he asked. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for bringing Wayne back.”

  I laughed and said, “I’m surprised you’d even offer, considering the way it turned out.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “Thank you, but I think I’ll settle in my room, order room service, and decide what to do about heading home.”

  “Whatever you do, call me before you leave. It was nice to meet you. Have a good night.”

  The clerk at the reception desk welcomed me warmly, and a bellman escorted me to my room, a lovely minisuite on a high floor. The Ambassador East is a historic hotel in the heart of the Gold Coast, not far from Marlise and Jonathon’s mansion. As charming as it is today, it’s the hotel’s history that fascinates me. Its Pump Room restaurant and the hotel itself had been home to Hollywood’s elite for many years. Sinatra reigned there when in town, and Bogart proposed to Bacall in the restaurant’s favored “Booth Number One.” I’ve never considered myself celebrity-bitten, but sensing the ghosts of show business greats who’d made the Ambassador East their home when in Chicago gave it a special ambience for me.

  My bag had been brought up and placed on a luggage rack. A vase of colorful flowers and a bottle of champagne were on a coffee table in front of a couch. I hung up my jacket, put my toiletries in the marble bathroom, sat in a flowered tufted chair by a window, and took a moment to digest everything that had occurred over the past two days.

  I must admit that I was impressed at how Marlise seemed to be holding herself together, considering that her husband had been murdered only days earlier. Maybe “surprised” would be a more accurate description of how I felt. She had always had a certain controlled way about her, which served her well when she was appearing on television in New York City. Still, the stereotypical grieving widow image was lacking from her current deportment, and the more I thought about it, the more it nagged at me, although Jonathon’s son and mother were no more expressive than his wife. I had to remind myself that everyone deals with emotion differently. Prosecutors are too quick to point the finger of guilt at someone who doesn’t grieve for a victim in a way that the prosecutor thinks is appropriate. Some people fall apart and stay that way for weeks, even months or years. Others are more philosophical about death and accept it as part of the human condition. As an old friend was fond of saying, dying is the price you pay for living. But because Marlise was now being accused of murdering her husband—the accusation coming from her stepson, no less—her composure was a little off-putting. She had come unraveled upon hearing Wayne’s accusation, but that seemed to be fueled more by anger than by grief.

  I was deep into those thoughts when the phone rang.

  “Jessica, dear, I’m so sorry I ran out on you that way. Will you forgive me?”

  “Of course, Marlise. You didn’t need to call to apologize, but I’m pleased to hear from you. I was telling your attorney, Mr. Corman, how disappointed I was that you and I haven’t had a chance to sit down and have a good talk.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. I’m afraid I was terribly rude, but the shock of hearing Wayne accuse me of killing Jonathon was too much to bear. I just had to get away, out of that toxic atmosphere, out of that house.”

  “I understand completely, Marlise. I want you to know that when I persuaded Wayne to come back to Chicago, I was encouraging him to return to help you. He never gave me any indication that his intentions were the opposite. Obviously, you were under the same misapprehension.”

  “I can’t believe he said that, absolutely cannot believe that this young man to whom I’ve been so good, so loving, could turn on me like that. Jessica, would you be up for dinner tonight, just the two of us? I know some nice quiet restaurants where we can catch up on things. I’d feel terrible if you made the trip out here and returned home without us having some time together. Please. I need someone to talk to, an old friend, someone who isn’t directly involved in this tragedy.”

  I was torn. The emotional roller coaster of the past two days had taken its toll on me, and I was very much looking forward to a quiet night alone in my suite. But this was the reason I’d come. I couldn’t turn my back on this friend who was in such trouble.

  “I’d like that very much, Marlise.”

  “Jessica, you are a dear. I’ll meet you at Les Nomades on East Ontario Street, just off Michigan Avenue. Do you know it? It’s my favorite French restaurant in Chicago, quiet, reserved, a perfect place for us to get together. Can you be there in an hour?”

  “An hour it is.”

  The taxi dropped me in front of a charming brownstone. Marlise was waiting for me in the entryway. We hugged. She looked beautiful in a buff pantsuit that hugged her stunning figure. I’d hastily put myself together in preparation for the dinner, but she looked as though she had just come from a salon.

  An attractive blond woman told us that our table was ready.

  “Jessica, say hello to Beth Liccioni. She owns this charming restaurant.”

  She greeted me warmly, but her smile faded when she said to Marlise, “Are you all right, Marlise? I was so sorry to hear.”

  “I’m holding up, Beth. Thank you for asking.”

  Marlise had requested a secluded table when she called for a reservation, and we were seated on the second floor, far from other diners. “Perfect,” Marlise proclaimed to the owner. “I knew I could count on you.

  “Jonathon and I used to come here on special occasions,” Marlise told me.

  “Maybe another restaurant would be—”

  “No, no, Jess. I like being here in familiar surroundings. I need a drink. You?”

  “A glass of wine would be fine.”

  She ordered a glass of Cabernet for me and a double scotch on the rocks for herself. She held up her glass and said sardonically, “Here’s to family values, Jess.”

  We touched the rims of our glasses.

  “Thanks for being here for me,” she said. “It’s just beginning to sink in how much trouble I’m in.”

  “I spoke with your attorney on the ride to my hotel. He doesn’t think that Wayne’s allegation will carry that much weight with the prosecutors, certainly not without corroborating evidence.”

  She slowly shook her head. “I can’t believe this is happening, being accused of murdering my husband. It’s like a bad dream.”

  “Your attorney seems like a capable fellow.”

  “Joe Jankowski says he’s the best in the city, although I’m never sure whether to trust Joe.”

  “Jonathon’s attorney,” I said, remembering what Corman had told me.

  “Right. Joe is an old-school Chicago lawyer, heavy political connections, not an honest bone in his body. He had Jonathon twisted around his little finger. A lot of people didn’t know that about Jonathon, how naïve he could be.”

  “I thought he was a successful businessman.”

  She guffawed. “Jonathon’s father was the successful businessman, Jessica. From the day Jonathon inherited the import-export firm from the old man, it started on a slow but steady downhill slide. It happened over a period of time, and it took me all those years to realize what was going on. Jonathon never included me in any business discussions. A big mistake on his part. He kept everything under wraps. When I’d ask about something I’d heard or read, he’d say that I shouldn’t concern myself about business and sort of pat me on the head. Not that I complained. There was always plenty of money for me to indulge myself.
When I think about it, I realize that keeping me in spending money was Jonathon’s way of shutting me up. Of course, he always confided in his mother. Jonathon was—I hate to say it—he was certainly a mother’s boy. And the old biddy held that over me from the first day we met.” Her grimace testified to her displeasure at that thought.

  “How bad had things gotten with his business?” I asked.

  “I’m not really sure. As I said, Jonathon kept me in the dark about his business dealings. I do know that he surrounded himself with questionable people who took him for a ride.”

  Our waiter appeared, and we ordered dinner—arctic char for me, roasted duck breast for Marlise. I passed on a second glass of wine, but she ordered a second double scotch. She seldom drank alcohol when we knew each other in New York, and I hoped that her wealthy lifestyle in Chicago hadn’t turned her into a problem drinker. She would need a clear head to navigate the troubles she faced.

  “You were saying that Jonathon was involved with questionable people,” I said after our salads had been delivered. “In what way?”

  “Hustlers,” she said. “Joe Jankowski is one of them. Edgar Peters is another. He became Jonathon’s partner a few years back.”

  “Why did Jonathon need a partner?” I asked. “If his father left him the business, I would assume that he didn’t need one.”

  “He didn’t in the beginning, but as the company continued hemorrhaging money, Jonathon brought in Peters as a partner. Edgar was good at raising money through investors and generated enough to keep things afloat for a while. At least that’s my understanding from picking up on bits and pieces of conversation. Jonathon never let his money problems get in the way of his philanthropy. He loved being a patron of the arts. He was never happy with running a company that imported and exported gadgets, household items, junk. Being involved in the arts allowed him to be viewed as being more—more cultured, I suppose.”

  We fell silent for a few minutes, and then Marlise said absently, “Settling the estate will be a circus.”

  I suppose my puzzled expression mirrored what I was thinking—that I hadn’t expected the subject of estates or money would be raised.

  Marlise smiled. “I don’t mean to bore you with all this, Jess.”

  “Bore me? Not at all. I don’t doubt that Jonathon’s estate is a complicated one.”

  “The art collection alone will be messy.”

  “I wanted to mention art,” I said. “Your home is filled with priceless art. Jonathon’s reputation as an art collector was well-known.”

  The effects of her second drink were now evident in her speech. She leaned across the table and said with what could almost be described as a giggle, “Let you in on a little secret, Jess?”

  I opened my eyes wide to invite her to continue.

  “All that so-called ‘priceless’ art you see hanging on the walls at home? Most are fakes.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “Jonathon spilled the beans right after we were married and I moved here. I guess it’s really not a surprise to people who know about that sort of thing. Jonathon says other collectors do it, too.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The art is too valuable to just hang on a wall in the house, so Jonathon had copies made of every piece he bought by some art forger in Los Angeles. The originals are stored in a small, climate-controlled warehouse Jonathon had built just for that. He took me there once.” She laughed. “I thought it was silly, paying all that money for a piece of art and then having to pay more to some forger to make a copy. I teased Jonathon about it, but he never found it funny.”

  “I wasn’t aware that collectors routinely did that.”

  “That’s what Jonathon told me. Oh, here’s our meal. I’m famished.”

  We said little during dinner, and I was relieved when she waved off the waiter’s offer of another drink.

  “The food is so good here,” she commented after we’d finished eating.

  “Yes, it was excellent,” I agreed. “Marlise, what do you intend to do during this period?”

  “Do? Do about what?”

  “Where will you stay? At a hotel until things are settled?”

  “I don’t know. I certainly don’t want to go back to the house with Wayne there, not to mention Jonathon’s mother. Don’t get me started on her.”

  “I can’t blame you for that. Still—”

  “I’ll figure that out tomorrow. Dessert?”

  “I’d better not.”

  She motioned for the bill and insisted upon paying for both of us. We said good-bye to the restaurant’s owner—“If there’s anything I can do, Marlise, please just ask,” she said—and hailed a taxi, which dropped me first, at the Ambassador East.

  “I’m planning to return home to Maine tomorrow,” I said before getting out of the cab.

  “Sure you can’t stay, at least for a few days? I certainly could use a friend I can trust about now.”

  “Let me think about it. We’ll touch base in the morning.”

  I hadn’t been in my room for more than fifteen minutes when the phone rang.

  “Jessica, dear, it’s Marlise. I just got off the phone with Willard Corman. He delivered a copy of Wayne’s lie to the prosecutors. I can’t believe he didn’t give me time to absorb all this. He said he had to do that. Anyway, two detectives are coming to the house at nine in the morning to question me again.”

  “That was inevitable,” I said.

  “I tried to get Willard to have them come to the hotel, but they insisted that the interview be held at the house. I hate to ask it of you, but would you be there with me?”

  “Oh, Marlise, I really don’t think that—”

  “Please, Jessica. I know it’s an imposition and that you intended to go home, but it would mean so much to me. Please.”

  “All right,” I said. “I can put off my flight a few hours. I’ll be there before nine.”

  “I knew I could count on you,” she said. “That’s what old friends are for, isn’t it? Here we are, not having seen each other in years, and it’s like we were never apart. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Jessica, dear. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Yes, I thought, that’s what old friends are for, only it’s rare that one of them has been accused of killing a spouse in cold blood.

  Chapter Nine

  When I arrived at the Simsbury home the following morning, the housekeeper, Mrs. Tetley, answered the door. She was a solidly built woman with a round Irish face and a no-nonsense expression.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher. I was to meet Mrs. Simsbury here this morning.”

  She said nothing as she turned and led me to the same room in which I’d been the previous day. It was only a few minutes past eight. I hoped it wasn’t too early, but I wanted to have some time with Marlise prior to the detectives’ arrival, and thought I’d catch her as soon as she arrived from her hotel. I assumed that I’d preceded her to the house and was surprised when she walked in a minute later.

  “Did you change your mind and stay here last night?” I asked.

  “God, no! I just couldn’t sleep. I got here hours ago.”

  We heard the sound of a distant door chime. Marlise looked at her watch. “That should be Corman,” she said.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” the lawyer said as he entered the room. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “I asked Jessica to be with me this morning,” Marlise said. “I need all the moral support I can get. God, how I dread this.”

  “You don’t have to answer their questions,” Corman said.

  “Why wouldn’t I answer? I haven’t done anything wrong. I told you exactly what I did that night. It’s the truth.”

  “That aside, if they get into areas you’re uncomfortable with, just refer the questions to me.”

  The door chime sounded again. A minute later Mrs. Tetley escorted a large, gruff-looking man into the room. He was easily six feet, four inches t
all and slightly stooped. His short black hair was fringed with gray. A healthy patch of gray and black hair protruded from his ears. His face was gray, too, an unhealthy look enhanced by a premature five o’clock shadow. His suit matched his other grayness.

  “Hello, Joe,” Corman said, getting up from his chair and shaking the new visitor’s hand. The man accepted a peck on the cheek from Marlise, then looked at me and scowled.

  “Meet Jessica Fletcher,” said Corman. “She’s an old and dear friend of Marlise’s. They go back to their days together in New York.”

  The newcomer grunted his name, Joe Jankowski.

  “I wasn’t expecting you, Joe,” Marlise said.

  “We need to talk,” Jankowski said.

  “The detectives are coming at nine and—”

  “There’s been a turn of events, Joe,” Corman said.

  The big attorney settled in a chair and said, “What’s that mean?”

  Corman told him of Wayne’s allegation that he’d seen Marlise shoot Jonathon.

  “That’s nuts,” Jankowski said. “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday,” Corman replied. “We thought he’d come back to Chicago to back Marlise up. Instead, the kid made this accusation.”

  “Why wasn’t I told?” Jankowski asked angrily.

  “It was a busy day, Joe,” Corman said.

  The chime was heard again.

  “Must be the detectives,” Corman said.

  Mrs. Tetley arrived and said to Marlise, “The cleaning people are here.”

  “It’s about time,” Marlise muttered. “Show them to Mr. Simsbury’s office and tell them to be quiet while they work. I want the rug removed, burned.” She turned to me. “Not that there’s much left of it after the police cut out several big pieces.”

  As Mrs. Tetley turned to leave, the chime sounded again.

  “I’ll go,” Corman said. “It’s probably the detectives.”

  He returned with two men, one middle-aged, the other younger. Both wore off-the-rack suits. The senior detective introduced himself as Larry Witmer; his younger colleague was Walter Munsch. There was no need for an introduction to Marlise. They’d been part of the team that had responded to her call the night Jonathon was murdered.